


Dangerous Lives

by WDHawthorne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WDHawthorne/pseuds/WDHawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been leading a dangerous life, but is that enough if he can't also have John?  John is attracted to that dangerous life, but is that really all that attracts him?  Mary has tried to leave her dangerous past behind for life as a wife and mother, but will keeping that past a secret be enough?  And with the "return" of Moriarty, are all those who Sherlock holds dear safe enough?  </p>
<p>"...we lead a dangerous life, Sherlock, you and me.   We don’t know what the future will bring.  Might be that one of these days could be our last chance to say some of these things to each other.  So, even though we’re both proper Englishmen, I still needed to say it—to say ‘I love you’.  And I do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know where the Mofftiss team will go with Series 4--surely everyone has a pet theory. I also have my own theories on what TPTB might do, but this isn't necessarily what I think we'll see in Series 4. It's what I want to see.
> 
> Spoilers for all eps through Series 3.

He hated this.  This whole thing had gotten disturbingly out of hand.  Sherlock had invited John and Mary to spend New Year’s Eve with him at the flat.  The Watsons had only been back together, a happy couple once again, for the short week since that notorious Christmas Day (wherein John returned to Mary, and Sherlock became embroiled in Magnussen’s murder) (not that Sherlock regretted either outcome); and Sherlock had thought a nice, quiet evening without any stress would be a welcome way for them to celebrate the New Year and all it would bring (Mmmm, yes.  The baby.  A girl, evidently.  Not to be named Sherlock apparently, either.  Disappointing.)  Sherlock still didn’t know how much the baby’s arrival would change things, so it seemed the chance to rekindle the camaraderie of the _threeness_ of them, like it had been during the wedding planning, was perhaps a good plan.  (Yes.  Yes, upon review it was a good plan, as far as it went.)   But one thing had led to another, and now, unexpectedly, distressingly, 221B was filled with merrymakers of all sorts.  Admittedly, these were people Sherlock knew, some of them well, but he just didn’t feel comfortable having them _all_ _here_ in the confines of his own living space.  There were just too many of them—too many voices, too many smells, too much collective stupidity—and Sherlock just didn’t do… _people._   Not when he had wanted only _three_.

Sherlock’s train of thought was rudely interrupted as he caught sight of yet another new pair of guests sitting on his sofa.  _Anderson?!_   What was _he_ doing here?  And with him was that woman from Forensics, whose name Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember.  

How did all this happen?

Sherlock thought back over the chain of invitations that had somehow snowballed into this bedlam.  Sherlock invited John and Mary, who then invited Mrs. Hudson (who apparently still maintained a friendship with Mr. Chatterjee), and Mike Stamford (and wife), and Janine (who apparently was still naïve to the fact that it was Mary who had concussed her some months earlier).  Likely then it was Janine who had invited Mycroft (Perhaps she was exacting yet another measure of revenge for Sherlock’s duplicity?)  And it definitely had to be Mycroft who’d invited Mummy and Daddy, no doubt to punish Sherlock for any number of sundry offenses up to and including the murder of the vile Magnussen (Sherlock didn’t give a damn that Mycroft found the man occasionally _useful_ ) and the agonizing experience of _Les Miserables_ with the parents. Lestrade more or less invited himself when he overheard John talking to Sherlock about New Year’s Eve; but to be fair, neither he nor John made any attempt to disabuse Lestrade of his idea of an intentionally large party.  (If anyone understood loneliness and loss as much as Sherlock, as much as John, it would be Lestrade these days, finally divorced, and working way too many hours.)  Of course, then Lestrade in turn invited Molly (even Sherlock couldn’t miss the wistful looks Lestrade kept turning her way), who then invited Bill Wiggins, under the misconception (continuously promoted only by Bill himself as he kept turning up at the lab at Bart’s) that Sherlock really considered Bill to be his “protégé”.  

But who invited _Anderson_?  

The likeliest suspect:  Lestrade.  Anderson had become divorced at some point during Sherlock’s two year hiatus from London, so perhaps there was a sort of “divorce kinship” between them now.  Or was it the past shared guilt for their respective roles in Sherlock’s “suicide”? Sherlock could explore that later (if he was ever utterly and completely _bored_ ), but in the meantime, he grudgingly accepted Anderson’s presence, because he knew John would be angry if he just threw the little stalker and his female companion out onto the street.  And Sherlock was determined he was not going to make John angry.  Never again.  If Sherlock had his way, John would always be happy, always, always, _always_ happy.

In times past, Sherlock would have fled to the relative safety of his bedroom and sulked behind a closed (possibly slammed) door, (no, upon reexamination of the idea, the door most definitely would have been slammed.  Much more conducive to expressing his _point_.) making it entirely clear that he was not pleased with this idea of their New Year’s Eve celebration.  But Sherlock couldn’t do that tonight, for two clear and obvious reasons.  First, Mycroft had already commandeered the room for his own haven of solitude, running the world from his mobile (oh, so dull).  Second, Sherlock knew that if he sulked in his room, it would make John unhappy, and that was just not done.  Not ever again.  Obviously.

At least his parents had left some time ago, saying something about being too old to stay up until midnight, and going home to celebrate the New Year amongst themselves.  _Ewwgh_.  Sherlock shuddered, recalling the mischievous gleam in their eyes, not needing to contemplate _that_.

It was getting close to midnight, and the “guests” (Sherlock used the term loosely as he contemplated the people before him, since he’d only invited _two_ of them.  John and Mary were guests.  The rest were party crashers.  Interlopers.  _Intruders_.) were beginning to pair off in preparation.  (Oh, the utter _inanity_ of it all!)  John brushed past Sherlock with a tipsy smile and a pat on his arm as he sought out Mary.  Lestrade had cornered Molly over by the bookshelf.  Anderson and his nameless date… 

“ _Three…Two…One…Happy New Year!”_

Mrs. Hudson blew one of those despicable noisemakers, and threw confetti (No matter, she would be the one to Hoover it up the next day), and there was the senseless din of various other noisemakers and shouts, and _Auld Lang Syne_ was blasting from the telly in the corner. Sherlock winced in disgust at the chaotic din (What is the _purpose_ , anyway, of making all this noise?!  It’s just another day!).  Then the initial racket ebbed a bit as gradually the pairs proceeded with the idiocy of the customary New Year’s kissing.  

Without intending to look in their direction, Sherlock’s gaze nevertheless fell upon John and Mary, wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing, smiling, and whispering to each other.  They looked happy.  John had only reconciled with Mary a week ago, at Christmas, but they looked completely in love again.  That was…good.

Sherlock sighed and dragged his eyes away.  That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?  For John to be happy again?  He’d vowed to be there for them, and he had done everything he could to keep that vow.  Towards that end, Magnussen had been expendable, regardless of Mycroft and his “usefulness”; regardless of Sherlock’s own fate thereafter.  So their happiness should be reflected by his own, shouldn’t it?  Sherlock moved towards the kitchen, suddenly finding the contemplation of all this emotionalism tedious, wanting at once to be away from all the noise and appalling sentiment.

Janine was standing near the doorway, an eyebrow lifted in Sherlock’s direction, and with a flirtatious question written all over her features.  She was clearly trying to ignore the attentions of Bill, who seemed to be trying desperately to convince Janine to indulge in the obvious New Year’s custom with him.  Sherlock looked away, wanting  most of all just to ignore her, but instead stepped close enough to speak into her ear.

“I don’t think so, you and me, do you?” he advised her, answering her unspoken question to him, not wanting to succumb to the tradition even for her (there was no longer any need for pretense, and she knew he harbored no feelings of romance towards her) (definitely not _her_ ) and then continued to walk past and into the kitchen, only to be stymied by the bulk of Mike Stamford and his wife embracing near the fridge (she was definitely much heavier than in the picture Mike kept on his desk in his office, must be an older photo than Sherlock had previously deduced).  Desperate for some solitude, for some respite from the whole weary _idea_ of New Year’s kisses (such a ridiculous custom!), Sherlock made for the fridge, pulling the door open and bumping it indelicately into Stamford’s backside.  

“Pardon me,” Sherlock grumbled (it wasn’t an apology, it was a complaint) as he faux-hunted in the fridge for something, anything, taking his time, just enjoying the privacy of the metallic walls and chill air.  Mike and his wife mumbled apologies and sidled out into the sitting room.

“Ah!  There you are!” John’s voice came from close behind Sherlock, and he felt John’s hand clap warmly onto his shoulder.  “I figured you’d be hiding out, but I thought you’d be in your room.”

Sherlock sighed as he closed the fridge door.  “Mycroft—”

As Sherlock turned to look at him, John was making a silly face and miming Mycroft with his mobile to his ear.  “Yeah,” John grinned, rolling his eyes, “I found him there when I went looking for you.”

Sherlock blinked.  _John went looking for me_?  

John shrugged and looked off towards the hallway door.  “Kinda sad, isn’t it?  Him all alone in there at midnight on New Year’s?”

Then John quickly looked up at Sherlock, his eyes a little wide, and his hand went to Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed.  “You know you’re _not_ , right?  Not alone?”

Sherlock could only blink again as he studied John’s face.  His eyelids were a little droopy and his words slightly slurred.  From experience, Sherlock knew that this was John with either four cocktails or six and one half beers (443.7ml each).  (Of course, that calculation depended upon the time and size of John’s last meal, his general hydration level prior to imbibing this evening, the time span over which John had imbibed, the number of restroom visits and the volume of urine expelled…) 

His calculations were suddenly interrupted as both of John’s hands then gripped Sherlock’s shoulders tightly as he stared straight up at him with a serious expression.  “Sherlock.  It’s New Year’s…”

“Yes.  Quite so.  Brilliant,” Sherlock snarked without really meaning to.

“And New Year’s only comes around once a year…”

“Obviously.”

“…so I want to tell you something,” John continued, undeterred.  After all this time, Sherlock’s unpleasant commentary often just rolled off John as if he hadn’t even heard it.  Sherlock found this familiarity pleasing.  “Sherlock, look.  I know we’re rubbish at this, both of us.  I avoid saying important stuff at all, and you avoid it by cracking wise.  But I think I’ve had just about enough to drink tonight to be able to say this.”

_Say what?_   Sherlock frowned.  Thinking it best to stay silent, Sherlock mentally catalogued the possibilities, somewhat worried about what John might say—he wasn’t sure if he could handle sentiment at the moment, but he was equally concerned that maybe it _wasn’t_ sentiment but instead something distressing—maybe a debilitating or fatal disease, a complication with the baby… 

“Sherlock,” John started, and licked his lips, a nervous habit Sherlock once found annoying, and now found inexplicably endearing.  John took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment, as if he was trying to remember how he’d planned his speech (because Sherlock knew whenever John did say anything sentimental or important, he always carefully prepared his words beforehand).  “You know, it’s customary for people to take stock of their lives as one year ends and a new one begins.”

When John hesitated, Sherlock merely filled the blank moment with a cautious nod.

“And I’ve been thinking about this past year, what it’s meant for all of us.  It’s really had some ups and downs, yeah?  I got married, we got pregnant, Mary shot you, we almost got divorced, you shot Magnussen, you almost got exiled…”  John let his list trail off with a sigh as he glanced away and back again.  He shifted his feet and continued, his eyes wide and a sparkling deep blue and so very determined.  “But you were there for me, for _us_ , through all of it.  You gave the loveliest, most bizarre speech at our wedding, you were the one to tell us there was a baby coming, and you were the one who insisted I forgive Mary.  And when you shot Magnussen, you saved Mary, and me, and you risked your own life and freedom to do it.”

Sherlock looked away, uncomfortable.  _Sentiment_.  John may have had enough to drink to loosen his tongue, but Sherlock was stone cold sober.  “John, I—,”

“I just want you to know that I’m grateful—we’re both grateful.  Now we’re back together, and the baby’s coming soon, and….Well…You are…you are the most amazing man I’ve ever known,”  John swallowed and pulled Sherlock to him in a fierce hug, locking an arm around Sherlock’s neck tightly, and softly scrubbing his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s shoulders with the other hand.  He spoke the rest into Sherlock’s neck, his breath a frisson of a warm tickle against his skin.  “And I love you.  I do.  And I wanted to say it because it’s true, and I think that probably not enough people have ever said that to you in your life.  So… there.  Happy New Year, Sherlock.”  

John punctuated his last words with a small, damp kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, his palm cupping around the back of Sherlock’s head, his fingers slotting through the tangle of curls.  Then he gave Sherlock a sheepish little grin, dropped his arms to his side again, and took a small step back.

Sherlock stood, listening to his heart pound.  He didn’t know what to do, how to react, what to say.  This all came easy for some people, people like John (he wasn’t rubbish at this, he was lovely at it, wonderful, most assuredly adept at it), and like Mary, but Sherlock could never trust himself.  It never turned out well when Sherlock relied on instinct and just blurted out what he was thinking.  He might inadvertently insult John (and he’d done that before, many times).  Or make him angry (He’d done that, too).  Or sad (Ditto).  Or disappointed (ditto again).  And none of that would do, not after John had just made the most eloquent, beautiful speech anyone had ever made in the whole history of mankind.

But if he didn’t _say_ anything, what should he _do_?  He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard John, not like he did when John talked to him about silly stuff like eating and sleeping and smoking.  And he couldn’t shrug and walk away and pretend none of what John had said affected him, or that it wasn’t important, not like he did when John wished him Happy Birthday or Happy Christmas.

But what _should_ he do?  What should he say?  How did _ordinary_ people react when people said things like this to them?

John was just standing there, still, with an expectant expression on his face, his lips pursed in a hesitant, awkward smile as Sherlock blinked in confusion.  

What did John expect he would do?  John had said that Sherlock always would ‘crack wise’ to avoid sentimental conversations, and Sherlock readily would acknowledge the truth of that.  _Does yours rub off too?  Are you really going to keep that?  Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._ So humor probably wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?  Should he tell John he loved him too?  He did.  He truly did, a shameful sentiment thriving so deep inside him now that it had grown roots and limbs and leaves and probably had a bird’s nest or beehive nestled in its arms.  But he had already told John so once, he’d used the “L” word during his speech at the wedding.  So John must know it already, and Sherlock really wasn’t sure he could actually make himself say the words, and certainly not as beautifully as John had.  He’d ruin it somehow, say it wrong, do something wrong, like he always did.  Should he pat John’s shoulder to show him how he felt?  He knew that was something ordinary people often did.  He’d tried that with  Lestrade and Anderson when he’d first come back from being dead, but that just seemed awkward.  And possibly too impersonal for someone who had just said what John had.

Sherlock looked to John for an answer.  John almost always helped him with what to do or say when Sherlock felt awkward.  “Just say thank you,” John would say, or “Sherlock, apologize!” or “Put the hat on and get it over with”.  But John was being of no help at all right now.  In fact, he was looking a little uncomfortable with Sherlock’s prolonged silence.  Sherlock swallowed dryly.  This was turning into the Question of the Best Man debacle all over again.

Sherlock couldn’t just stand there blinking, not this time, not again.  He had to say or do something quickly, or John might regret his words.  And he just could not have John regret any of it, that simply would not do.  What John had said, and done, was absolutely lovely in the most charming, adorable way, and Sherlock did not want to mar the occasion for John whatsoever.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and went to his mind palace.  Ballroom, gallery, library, dining hall, kitchen, _no, no, no, no, no._ Sunroom, office, bedroom, loo, servant’s quarters, _no, no, no, no._   Sitting room.  _Hmmm_.  In the sitting room, where Sherlock sat with John and had thousands of imaginary discussions.  Where John watched crap telly and Bond films, and…Oh.  _Telly_.  Yes, that might be useful.  What did the characters on the telly do when another character said such lovely things to them?

_Oh!  Ohhhhh._

Sherlock put his hands on John’s waist and moved the two of them out the back of the kitchen into the hall.  John stumbled a little in apparent confusion over where Sherlock was directing him.  Once they were more or less out of sight, Sherlock stopped and stepped close into John’s space.

“John…,” he started softly, and was surprised to hear the catch in his own voice.  Perhaps he shouldn’t try to say too much.  He gazed down into the rich dark blue of John’s eyes, eyes slightly crinkled at the corners with amusement; eyes that were honest, and brave, and oh, so trusting that Sherlock would never hurt him again.  He tightened his fingers on the gentle curve of John’s waist.  “Happy New Year, John.”

And then Sherlock bent and covered John’s mouth with his own.  He swallowed John’s surprised little gasp and tasted sweet whiskey and salty crisps on John’s warm, delicate lips.  John’s body twitched slightly under Sherlock’s hands, and Sherlock made sure his grasp was loose enough that John could escape if he was too overwhelmed.  Sherlock held his mouth softly against John’s—he didn’t really know what else to do, now that he had committed to this.  The people on the telly always seemed to enjoy long and luxurious kisses, but Sherlock was unsure if that was something John would want from him.  After all, he had Mary for that kind of thing, who must be millions of times better at it than Sherlock’s bumbling attempt…

_Mary_ … Oh!

Sherlock broke the kiss suddenly and staggered back, feeling his adrenaline kicking in as if he’d just been in hand-to-hand combat with a samurai.  How long had that gone on?  Had it just been a second, three seconds, thirty?  Had anyone seen them?  John would be furious if people _still_ got the wrong idea about him.

“John!  John, I’m sorry!  Th-that was…inappropriate,” Sherlock stammered as he searched his face for clues as to how mad at him John was going to be.  “I’m sorry, that was not good.  I didn’t—I was confused—I…”

“Sherlock, sshhh, stop.  It’s okay,” John waved his hand between them to get Sherlock to stop speaking, and when Sherlock did, John settled his palm gently against Sherlock’s cheek.  Sherlock had to close his eyes to concentrate on not leaning too noticeably into the welcome warmth of John’s small, sturdy hand.  _John always has lovely, clean hands, he’s a doctor, he washes them many times a day, his hands are soft, his touch is gentle, he has to touch his patients, care for their bodies, care for their wounds…But his hands are strong too, he can knock me down easily, choke me, punch me…_

“Sherlock, look at me,” John whispered, and Sherlock obeyed, finding John’s face a bit closer than he’d expected.  “It’s all fine,” John soothed, brushing his thumb across Sherlock’s cheek.  It seemed to be true.  He didn’t look angry.  His eyes were clear and bright despite his slight inebriation, and the lines around his eyes still crinkled a little, the way they did when John was amused or affectionate.  “I don’t mind.  After all this time, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from you.  And it’s to your credit that you can keep surprising me.”

“And I … surprised you?”

John just grinned and broke eye contact, his cheeks showing a hint of pink.  “A bit, you could say.  But it’s okay, really…,” John’s eyes darted past Sherlock a moment and then he backed away a couple steps.  “And now I think I’ll go get myself another drink, yeah?”

As John disappeared back through the kitchen and out towards the bottles of alcohol (all laid out on the desk in the sitting room so their guests could help themselves—John knew better than to count on Sherlock to play host and serve the drinks), Sherlock backed another step or two along the hallway, still seeking solitude, needing to process what had just happened.  He frowned at his trembling fingers as they touched his still-tingling lips.  John had assured him that he wasn’t angry about what Sherlock had done, but he had beaten a fairly hasty retreat to get away from him, hadn’t he?  Sherlock felt embarrassed and ashamed that, once again, he’d ruined something nice with his inappropriate responses.

From further back in the hallway behind Sherlock, near the bedroom door, there was a long, quiet, exasperated sigh.  

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft spoke lowly, his voice trailing off, his tone expressing far more disappointment than Sherlock could ever remember hearing from his judgmental brother—including the day a week ago when Magnussen had been murdered.

Sherlock’s humiliation was now complete.  He knew, just from the tone of Mycroft’s words, that Mycroft had seen too much.  At least this explained why John had practically run from him.  It may not have been to escape from Sherlock, but Mycroft.  Any comfort Sherlock felt from that fact was, however, negligible.  He stood frozen for several long, unendurable minutes, unable to conjure up a suitable defense, and chose to pretend he was lost in thought rather than merely mortified.

Not knowing how long he stood there, motionless, stunned and embarrassed, with his back to his brother as Mycroft stared, Sherlock suddenly took off in the opposite direction, away from Mycroft’s sour face.  He could not bear the pity and superiority that would be evident in his brother’s expression, so he darted back into the kitchen, around the corner, and attempted to scramble up the steps towards John’s old bedroom.  Except that in order to get there, he found he’d have to pass by Mary, who was sitting near the bottom of the staircase, one hand soothing her swollen belly, her brows raised as she looked at Sherlock.  She _knew_ , he could tell by her expression.  Her face held none of the superiority that he would have seen on Mycroft’s, but he was sure he saw pity there.  Pity and perhaps a touch of amusement.  Or _mockery._ Sherlock wasn’t sure.

He turned back to try to flee down the other stairs towards the first floor, but Mycroft had followed him out to the landing and was now standing at the top of the main staircase.

_Just brilliant_.  Two exit routes and both blocked, one by Mycroft’s condescending disappointment, the other by Mary’s pity and mockery.  

Sherlock didn’t know which was worse—Mycroft having seen his folly, or Mary.  Mycroft could make Sherlock’s life miserable with his arrogant disdain and pretentious advice, but Mary could make _John’s_ life miserable if she was unhappy about anything that had occurred between John and Sherlock tonight.

Sherlock stood in the middle, unable to choose the lesser evil, his heart thudding in his chest, lungs burning for air, and vaguely realized that he was having a panic attack of sorts.  He’d had something like this at least once before that he could remember, when Moriarty had committed suicide and left Sherlock with no other choice but to jump and leave John and his life here behind, and this felt quite a bit like that—No good choices and no way out.

“Oi!  Happy New Year, Sherlock!” Mary greeted, her voice not betraying any dire consequences.  Of course, Sherlock knew that a former assassin could mask these things.  

He glanced back towards Mycroft, but only saw his back as he answered a call on his mobile.  

“Come sit with me, Sherlock, you look like you could use a little breather, yeah?” Mary invited, her eyes bright, her voice musical, all sweet innocence, and patted the empty half of the step next to her.

Another glance to Mycroft, but he was only awarded a distracted nod as Mycroft turned and retreated back into the flat towards the privacy of Sherlock’s room again.  All Sherlock heard was “I said I would take care of it…” before Mycroft’s voice was swallowed up in the din of the party.

Sherlock looked back towards Mary, hesitating.  If he ran down the steps now, not only would she think him a coward, but it would only postpone the inevitable, so he took a deep breath and lowered himself to sit on the stair one step below her, and hoped she didn’t notice the trembling in his hands.

He didn’t look at her, just propped his arms on his knees and hung his head, attempting to  look appropriately contrite.

“I’m sorry, Mary…  Please don’t be angry with John.”

Mary chuckled, and Sherlock felt her palm skim across his back.  “Calm down, Luv.  What’s got you in such a state?  What would I be angry with John for?”  

She _knew_ , of course she did, Sherlock was sure of it.  Why was she trying to pretend she didn’t?  Surely if she knew what had happened, the honest response would be anger, wouldn’t it?

“For what I did,” Sherlock muttered lowly, hating that he could feel the heat of shame rising in his cheeks.  “John didn’t do anything wrong, it was me.”

Mary tut-tutted gently and he felt her inexplicably kiss the top of his head as she stroked his back again.  “Oh, Sherlock,” she scolded gently, and he heard nothing but warmth in her voice.  He’d heard that affection before— _Oh,_ _Sherlock.  Neither of us were the first you know_ —but he wasn’t sure if he should allow himself to believe her sincerity.  “From what John said, you didn’t do anything wrong, either.  You kissed him.  In your own unconventional way, mind you, but it’s not like it’s a shock to anyone that you love him so.”

Sherlock frowned, a bit discombobulated.  “He told you?”  

“Of course he did.  I asked him how his little speech went, and he told me.  Did you think I would be jealous?” she prodded.

“No!” Sherlock denied, forcing some indignation into his voice.  “Of course not!” 

“Oh!” she gasped lightly, her eyes dancing.  “You thought I’d be jealous!” Mary chuckled, her voice teasing.  “Of course you did.  You thought if I knew my husband kissed someone else, I’d be jealous.  Or furious.”

He studied her face a long moment, trying to deduce if she was truly not upset; and from everything he could see (eyes, mouth, hands, body language), it seemed that perhaps she was telling the truth.  She was the same woman from before, whom Sherlock had grown to love simply because John did, and because he trusted John.  She looked like herself again, understanding and generous and accepting of him in her life, just like she did before they found out about her dubious career path.

“All right.  It may have crossed my mind,” he admitted.

She ruffled his hair, teasing, and leaned forward so she could speak privately to him, clearly not wanting to be overheard by anyone from the party just a few feet away.  “Sherlock, I know you have good reason not to trust me, but truly, I’m not angry.  I made a mistake once, not trusting my husband to be as strong and loving as he is.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.”  Her next words were spoken gently.  “He probably wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but he practiced his little New Year’s speech on me for nearly an hour before we came here tonight.”

Sherlock stared at her a moment before realizing his mouth was gaping open, and he closed it so abruptly his teeth clicked as he looked away again.

“So… Okay?” she asked him, trying to get him to meet her gaze.

He nodded his agreement, still surprised, and he hated surprises.  Sometimes being a high-functioning sociopath, as he liked to proclaim, left him at a disadvantage.  He didn’t understand why John would feel the need to say what he had said (as wonderful as it was), or why he would want to rehearse it with Mary, or why Mary would think Sherlock’s reaction—kissing her husband on the mouth, possibly for an extended period of time—was acceptable by any reach of the imagination.  He didn’t let his eyes meet hers.  He didn’t want her to see how confused he was.

They sat together in silence for a minute, a silence that Sherlock welcomed, despite the sounds of the party just inside the doorway of the flat.  He needed to think, to try to make sense of all this.

Then Mary shifted her position on the step and faced Sherlock a little more.  “Sherlock,” she began.  “ _Why_ are we okay?” 

Surprised yet again, Sherlock cocked his head and frowned.  “What?”

“Why are we—you and me—okay?  I’ve wanted to ask you for months…Why did you work so hard to convince John he should forgive me?  I _know_ how badly you were hurt, how close I came to killing you.  But…Why did you make up that shite about me shooting you with ‘surgical’ precision, and saving your life?  My God, you even _killed_ a man to protect me.  And I just don’t understand why you would do that for me.”

Sherlock found himself re-assessing his opinion of her intelligence.  He blinked, astounded that she seemed to be incapable of following the simplest logic. How could she not know?  He fought the urge to roll his eyes for about two seconds before he gave in and did it anyway.  “I didn’t do it for you.  I did it for _John_.  He deserves to be happy, and you make him happy.”

Mary at least looked chagrined, but let him continue.  Best to explain things like he did for Lestrade, slow and simple, as if she were stupid.  “I used John’s loyalty to make him believe what he _wanted_ to believe.  He didn’t want to believe that his wife nearly killed me, and I did nothing to dissuade him of that notion.”

“But Sherlock,” she prodded again. “Why?”

Sighing, Sherlock confessed, “Because I owed you that.”

“ _Owed_ me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.  “That first evening when I returned to John, he was so very angry with me.  I feared our friendship was at an end.  But you told me you’d talk him ‘round.  And you did, and for that I am still most grateful.”

Mary blinked at him a moment.  “Huh,” she mused, shaking her head, as if she weren’t quite believing him.  “So we’re… _even_ then?  We each had a go at talking him ‘round, and you think that makes us even?  I’m a murderer, and now you’re a murderer too, so all’s well that ends well?”

“Of course.  Yes.  As long as John is happy.”

“Huh”, she repeated, clearly mulling this over.  After a minute or so she shifted again so she could lean over her swollen belly and kiss his temple. “Thank you, Sherlock.  I can’t say that I truly understand, but nevertheless, I’m grateful.”

He did his best to ignore the sentiment.  For his part, he couldn’t quite understand why she didn’t mind that he’d kissed her husband either, but was still appreciative of the fact.

Mary giggled then, and held her hand out to Sherlock.  “Now help me up.  I better go see how sloshed John has gotten himself.” 

As Sherlock helped her to her feet, she smiled up at him as she massaged her hand across her lower back.  “Lucky for me you’re so sure I can make him happier than you could.  If things had been just a bit different, you could’ve had ’im, you know.”

Taken aback, Sherlock frowned, wondering what she’d meant, and why his heart had suddenly made a loud thump in his chest.  “What?”

She shrugged and answered nonchalantly as she turned back towards the noise of the party.  “If you’d come back a few minutes sooner, or if you’d just apologized and explained right off, you could’ve had him.”

And with those words, tossed out so carelessly as if she were merely commenting on the weather, she walked back into the sitting room to rejoin the party, leaving Sherlock unable to breathe out there on the landing.

_You could’ve had him…_   Her words tumbled through Sherlock’s thoughts, around and around, cascading through his brain and slipping into his belly with a sour plunk.  She couldn’t possibly have meant…?  But if not, why did she say that?  Were her words meant to hurt (and why exactly did they hurt?), or did she intend them as comfort (her expression had been thoughtful)?  

Sherlock didn’t understand, and he detested not understanding.  Frowning and impatient, he took a step after her and grabbed her upper arm, spinning her back around towards him.

“What did you mean?” he demanded.  “Explain yourself!”

As Sherlock pulled Mary around to face him, her burgeoning size and modified center of gravity caused her to stumble a bit before she was able to reassert her balance.  Sherlock was confident that his grasp on her arm would have prevented a spill, but it seemed that neither Mary, nor nearby Janine, who quickly supported Mary’s other arm, seemed to share that conviction.  Mary’s expression indicated surprise and, unexpectedly, an element of fear; while Janine’s face clearly showed reproach.  

“Sherlock!” Janine exclaimed, disapproval dripping from her usually lilting voice, stepping between him and Mary protectively.  

At that point, Sherlock observed that several other persons nearby—the Stamfords, Mrs. Hudson, and Anderson (of all people!) had noticed, and he realized that perhaps his voice had been raised ( _just slightly!_ his mind insisted), and that perhaps he should not have grabbed Mary’s arm in that manner (no, that was not on, not at all).  

He released Mary immediately, as if scalded, and fled the party, his cheeks burning in shame at having once again done something _a bit not good_.  He flew quickly down the staircase and out the front door, only stopping once the cold air swallowed him and he remembered to breathe again.  He gasped huge lungfuls of air and let himself slide down to sit on the small concrete step in front of the door, grasping the wrought iron rail to steady himself.

_A bit not good… You could’ve had him_ … Had John seen him accost Mary?  Immaterial, since someone was bound to tell him.  John would be angry this time.  Mary would be angry.  Yes, she was an assassin, but she was pregnant now, she was fragile… But he didn’t _understand_ , he needed someone to tell him what she’d _meant_!  _You could’ve had him…_

After many long, cold minutes, his maelstrom of thought was suddenly interrupted by the weight of heavy cloth landing across his shoulders with a plop.  Sherlock startled—it was his coat, draped haphazardly across his shoulders—surprised that he hadn’t observed anyone’s approach.  But a quick glance at the small men’s shoes on the step beside him told him that it was John.  

Of all people to come out here, it had to be John?  Just when Sherlock needed his space to think about everything that had happened tonight, everything that had been said, and done, it had to be John who came out to talk to him now?  

Of course it did, he thought ruefully.  Who else would?  Sherlock pushed his arms into the sleeves of his coat, resignedly waiting for the reproach from John.  

Instead, John only giggled.  

Sherlock shot him a questioning look.  Why wasn’t he angry?   Surely he’d heard about what Sherlock had done to Mary.

Swallowing back another chuckle, John tried to compose his face, unsuccessfully.  “I think I’m a bit pissed.”

Sherlock looked up at him as he stood swaying on the step, chuckling, his eyes puffed and drowsy, his shirt tail half-pulled out of his trousers and peeking out from the bottom of his dreadful jumper, his hair mussed, and his jacket literally worn inside-out.  

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

John stepped down, wobbled over to the iron rail and leaned his back against it, clearly needing the support.  He peered down at Sherlock blearily.  

“All right?” he asked.

Sherlock inclined his head.  How many times had those two words passed between them over the years?  In spite of everything, _everything_ , John was asking after Sherlock’s well-being? 

“Fine.  Just needed to get away from all those… _people,_ ” Sherlock lied, making a face at the end, as was typical of his usual distaste for the word.  

“Mary say something to upset you?”

Ah, John.  Oblivious to the most blatant criminal evidence, but so very perceptive to human emotion.  Sherlock shrugged, and feigned indifference as he lied smoothly.  “I merely didn’t have the social insight necessary to realize she was merely teasing me.”

John shrugged.  “She can have a sharp tongue sometimes.”

Sherlock frowned and wanted to ask why John would say that, but realized that in this state John might not be able to give him an answer that would make sense.  So instead, Sherlock took pity on him and stood, peeled the jacket off John’s shoulders, righted it, and helped him back into it properly.  He started to help John with the fastenings, but as he reached for the zip tab, his fingers brushed John’s, and the electricity of the touch made Sherlock immediately back up a step.

And as fate would have it, again, of all the things for John to observe and not miss, even in his current condition, John noticed.  He watched Sherlock closely, even with his heavy-lidded eyes, as John fumbled with his zip and snaps.  

Sherlock returned to sit on the step, pretending to look out over the street as if nothing were amiss, and buried his hands in his own pockets, his knees drawn up in front of him as if they were a defensive bunker.

“Look, Sherlock,” John began, and bent to seat himself beside him, hanging onto the rail for balance, but still landing with an ungraceful plunk, probably much closer than he had intended.  His side leaned warmly against Sherlock, while his back was propped against the door, and Sherlock both relished and detested it, and was at a loss to understand why he felt either way.

“Look,” John repeated, and Sherlock could tell that he again was trying to choose just the right words for what he was about to say.  “Sorry if I caught you off-guard with that little speech I gave you before.”

Sherlock gave a thought to apologizing for his reaction to that little speech, but disregarded the idea.  Perhaps apologizing for kissing someone might be seen as insulting.  Would it?  Sherlock didn’t really know, and wouldn’t take the chance.

“And I’m also sorry that it took me so long to say it, and that I had to get drunk to do it,” John continued.

Sherlock turned his head to stare at John.  What was he on about?  When John had asked Sherlock to be his best man, he had referred to him with the word ‘love’.  _…with the two people that I love and care about most in the world…_

Still…this had been different.  It had been said directly _to_ him, not _about_ him, and Sherlock was quite certain that saying it in that manner must be a much more difficult endeavor.  

John met his eyes for a moment, and even in his heavy-lidded, inebriated state, Sherlock saw a sadness in them.  Then John blinked and looked away, towards the street.

“You know, when you were…gone…,” John cleared his throat.  “There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn't wonder, when I didn’t regret…”  He cleared his throat again.

“Regret what?” Sherlock prodded.

John sighed and took a deep breath before saying, “that I didn’t tell you before you jumped.  I thought you were dead, and every day, every hour, almost every _minute_ I wondered what would have happened if I’d told you.  Would you still have jumped?”  John rubbed a shaky hand roughly over his face before continuing.  “And then you were back and poking fun at me, and it was all a huge lie, and I realized if I’d said it back then it wouldn’t have made any difference at all, because it was just all a great big elaborate hoax.  I was so angry with you for that…for making me feel…”  

When John’s words trailed off and he didn’t continue, Sherlock managed to mumble through his shame, “John, I really am so, so sorry…”

But John straightened his shoulders and sucked in a breath as he turned towards Sherlock.  “No.  No, it’s all right.  I’ve forgiven you.  You were just being you, and doing what you do, and I get that now.  It’s all fine.”  

Sherlock shivered at John’s words, suddenly feeling the cold and damp of the concrete step creeping up through him.  With a small, understanding smile, John reached to tilt up the collar of Sherlock’s coat.  “Sorry, forgot to bring your scarf too…” he mumbled as he arranged the collar to his liking.  “But we lead a dangerous life, Sherlock, you and me.   We don’t know what the future will bring.  Might be that one of these days could be our last chance to say some of these things to each other.  So, even though we’re both proper Englishmen, I still needed to say it—to say ‘I love you’.  And I do.”  John ducked his head and chuckled.  “And maybe next time I won’t have to get so drunk, because it doesn’t seem nearly so hard anymore after the first time…”

_Next time?_ Sherlock shivered again as he stared open-mouthed at John’s happy expression.  He looked…relieved, as if a weight had been lifted.  His eyes glittered in a way that had nothing to do with his lack of sobriety.

“John…,” Sherlock whispered, wanting to say it back to him, wanting to ensure that John knew.  Wanting to say it as John had said it to him, separate from the way he’d said at the wedding, more personal.  Wanting John to know how much hearing those words meant to him.  Needing to say it in case it turned out to be his last chance.  Hoping that maybe if he said it, he might know some of the relief and peace that John seemed to be experiencing. 

“John…I…”

When Sherlock’s throat closed over his words, John merely smiled and gave him a nudge with his shoulder.  “Nah, I know how you feel.  If you said it, you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

“John,” Sherlock tried again, frustrated at the strangled pitch of his own voice.

Still smiling, John just shook his head and gazed out at the traffic coming up the road.  “I heard you say it in your toast at the wedding.  I’m good with that.  I didn’t say it tonight with any expectations.  I said it for me.  I said it because I should  have said it before you jumped.  And I should have said it before you got on that plane, even though I suspected you had something up your sleeve.”

John turned to watch the traffic in the other direction now.  “Nice bit that, faking a Moriarty comeback to keep you here in London.  I figured you were up to something.  Didn’t think you’d go that far, what with the media takeover and all, but I guess you do like a bit of drama, don’t you?”

Sherlock peered at John with a frown.  “What?” he asked stupidly, then quickly caught up with the segue.  “Oh that.”  Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.  “No, that wasn’t me, that would have been Mycroft’s doing.”

“Really?” John glanced at Sherlock, amazed, then shrugged and shook his head.  “Mycroft sure was good at playing the part of being surprised.”  Then he chuckled, “Apparently you’re not the only drama queen in the family.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched sideways at the remark, but no further comment seemed necessary.

“John…” Sherlock started in yet another attempt to say the words that he needed to say, but at that very moment the door behind them opened and John fell backwards onto the entryway floor and started giggling.  It was such a comical sight that Sherlock could not resist laughing along with him.  

Lestrade and Molly helped John sit back up and stepped carefully between them and out the doorway.  

“And you wonder how people get the wrong idea about you two,” Lestrade chuckled.

John was still laughing as he retorted.  “Don’t matter, not anymore, Greg.  Married, baby on the way, r’ember?” John waggled the ring finger of his right hand, saw that it was bare, and then with a muffled ‘oops!’ quickly showed them the simple gold band on his left ring finger instead.

Lestrade just shook his head while smiling at them, but didn’t say a word except to thank Sherlock for hosting the party.  Molly kissed them both lightly on the cheek with a wish of “Happy New Year”, Sherlock hailed them a cab, and they were gone.

Sherlock sat on the step next to John again, but this time left enough space between them for any other departing guests to step between.  John watched the cab round the corner and shrugged, then turned and twitched his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Is that something new?” he asked.

“Is what new?” 

“Greg and Molly.”

Sherlock couldn’t have cared less, and let his voice convey his total disinterest.  “I have no idea.”

John peered down the road long after the cab had turned the corner and gone out of sight, seemingly content with Sherlock’s indifference towards the Molly/Lestrade matter, and Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, desperately needing to think about the events of the evening.

The rest of the party guests slowly filtered out over the next hour, interrupting Sherlock and John’s easy silence with their boring New Year’s greetings and comments on the party, but Sherlock did his best to use the time to think.  He always did his best thinking when John was around, so he wanted to make as much use of this time as he could before Mary took him home.  Besides, he could hardly be blamed for not wanting to make small talk with these people who had invaded his home.  He merely grumbled “You’re welcome” and “Happy New Year” and “Good night” when John told him to do so.

As they sat, John hummed a little Auld Lang Syne, quietly, more than a bit out of tune.  Then he gave a long sigh, sounding content.

“You know, when you were gone, I used to sometimes have a hard time believing what had happened.  When you jumped, I mean.  It all felt like a bad dream, and I wondered if I might somehow just wake up from it.”  John sighed again, softly.  “I used to wish for that so much.”

“And now your wish has come true,” Sherlock answered snidely, realizing how much it sounded like romantic pap.

But John only nodded and grinned happily, Sherlock’s rudeness either overlooked or forgotten.  “But then again,” John continued, his expression sobering, “sometimes it feels like _this_ is the dream, your being here with me again, and that one day I might wake up and find that you never came back at all, and that you’ve really been dead all along.”

Sherlock hesitated, realizing how difficult that probably was for John to say.  He sorted through his possible responses, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

“But you’d still have Mary either way.”

John met his gaze and blinked.  Then he shrugged and looked away.  “Still doesn’t mean I wouldn't be heartbroken if this was the dream.”

Sherlock bent his head and stared at the tops of his knees.  It seemed like he should respond in kind, to offer up something of his own to meet John’s own admission.  

“Speaking of dreams,” Sherlock began as soon as he hit on what seemed to be a half-way acceptable topic, “when I was unconscious in the hospital after being shot, I remember dreaming of you being there.  But it was real, wasn’t it.  You were holding my hand, touching my hair… I remember hearing you talk to me.  And…were you crying?”

“Damn right I was,” John snorted without hesitation or any sign of embarrassment.  “You’d almost died.  Again.  You looked so pale, so…The thought of losing you twice…”

“But then I woke up and was fine,” Sherlock interjected, uncomfortable at the emotion he heard in John’s quiet voice.

“Yeah.  And then you woke up.  And after all that, instead of opening your eyes and looking at me and saying _my_ name, you said ‘Mary’.  That felt…”  John turned to Sherlock with a sheepish little grin.  “I think my feelings were hurt.”

Sherlock could only meet that gaze for a moment before he had to look away.  “You understand why, now.”

“Yes.  Of course I do.  And that’s…that’s all in the past.  I just was so scared back then, of losing you again…”

All at once, Sherlock felt that the most important thing he had to do was prevent John from feeling any more sadness over what was done and could not be changed.  So he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, attempting to return to his usual sentiment-phobic self.  “I can see we’ll need to monitor your alcohol intake in the future.  You are positively maudlin when you drink too much.”

And John just smiled and nodded, apparently grateful for the respite Sherlock offered.  They sat together in companionable silence for many minutes, both lost in thought.

Eventually, John sighed and worked to bring himself to stand, heavily using both the iron rail and Sherlock’s shoulder to get himself upright.  “Well.  I suppose I should go up ’n help Mary down the stairs.  She can’t see her feet no more, yeah?”

“ _Any_ more,”Sherlock automatically corrected, and stood also, observing his swaying friend with an arched brow.  “I think you’ll not be of any use to her in your condition.  Allow me.”

However, as Sherlock stepped inside the door, he saw that Mary and Janine were already almost to the bottom of the staircase, Mary’s arm linked through Janine’s as a precaution.  

“Oh, Hello, Sherlock,” Mary cooed and smiled when she saw him.  Janine seemed a bit more reserved, saying nothing, but lifted her brows in dubious curiosity.

Sherlock offered Mary a hand as she took the final two steps down.  He would have preferred to be able to apologize privately (and perhaps inquire further into Mary’s confusing remark), but this would have to do.  “Mary, I -”

Mary just smiled and shook her head, taking his offered hand.  “It’s all right, Luv.  No worries.”

Grateful beyond measure, Sherlock merely nodded, and held the door for the ladies to exit before him. John was still leaning against the rail, staring off into space, and quietly humming to himself.  When he saw them exiting the building, he grinned broadly.  “Well, that was quick, Sherlock.  Seems like you just left!”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

But after that, it all happened so fast.  Janine decided to share a cab with John and Mary, in case Mary needed help (quite likely) getting John from the cab to bed.  Sherlock started to offer that the Watsons could stay here, but Janine had already flagged a taxi, and John had already poured himself into the back seat.  Then Mary was getting into the back seat with him, and then Janine, cheery thank you’s and good nights were said, and suddenly Sherlock was left staring morosely after the cab as it drove off.  

There had been no opportunity to ask Mary to explain what she’d said, and the confusion was boring a hole into the very center of Sherlock.  _You could’ve had him…_   What did she mean? Why did those words slice into him so deeply?  Why did they matter?

And John.  John had been here, warm and silly and quiet, albeit drunk, and now in a flash, he was gone.  Gone to his home, the home that he had made with Mary, and soon the baby too, and not with Sherlock.  And Sherlock was left here, alone, feeling hollow.

_You could’ve had him._  

Sherlock sat down on the step again, and concentrated on breathing the cold night air, trying to empty his mind of all non-essential thought so he could make some sense of Mary’s words.  In spite of his apparent confusion, he had an inkling that he intrinsically _knew_ the answer; yet, it couldn’t be what he’d first thought.  Still, every time he heard her words in his mind, all he knew was an intense pain that both bewildered and frightened him.  

And the more he let those words play in his mind, the more his chest hurt, the more his hands shook, the more his vision blurred, and the more his lungs fought for air.  He forced himself to try to breathe evenly, fought back the _symptoms_ , and searched for the _cause_ of this apparent disease.

_You could’ve had him._

_You could’ve had him._

Sherlock paused in his mind palace in front of the door to a remote, secret attic room that he kept chained and barred.  Carefully, slowly, he opened the locks, unwound the chains, and slid the huge oaken bar aside. 

_Lucky for me…You could’ve had him…_

Then he let himself think it, think the thought that he knew he shouldn’t.

_He could have had John in the sense that Mary now had him instead!_

Isn’t that what she must have meant? But … That would be…impossible.  That couldn’t be right.  John himself would be the first one to remind everyone within hearing range that he _wasn’t gay_.  

But what else could she have meant?

Frustrated, Sherlock ruffled his trembling hands through his hair and groaned, still experiencing a deep, painful, hollow feeling in his belly.

“Lovely party, Brother Mine.”

Sherlock turned away from where Mycroft’s perfect, shiny shoes stood beside him and rubbed his hand across his face.  _Why was it wet?_ He tried to force all his thoughts on John and Mary back into the attic room and lock them away again before Mycroft caught on.  

He sighed dramatically.  “What are _you_ still doing here?  Don’t you have a country to run?”

Mycroft’s umbrella tapped annoyingly on the step beside Sherlock.  “As it happens, Brother dear, I have the rest of the evening free,” Mycroft made a show of looking at his ridiculously expensive watch.  “That is, as much as remains.”

Sherlock hugged his knees defensively.   “Go away,” he muttered sullenly.  “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“What a coincidental choice of words,” Mycroft offered with forced cheer as he surprisingly stooped to sit beside Sherlock on the step.  “I _had_ thought I might interest you in a nice game of …Operation?  Or perhaps Cluedo?”

Sherlock lifted his chin from atop his knees and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother.  “What?  Why?”

Suddenly, Mycroft’s hand darted out and he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, holding it up before Sherlock’s face.  He raised a skeptical brow and pointedly looked as Sherlock’s hand trembled in his grasp.  “I thought perhaps tonight might be a bit…” he paused ominously before continuing, “… _dangerous_?”

Snatching his hand back and hiding it safely under his folded arms around his knees, Sherlock huffed and turned his face away.  “Dangerous?  Why?  Are you planning to do me harm?”

“You know why,” Mycroft grumbled lowly.  “John would not approve if you… _indulged_ again.  You know what happened the last time.”

Sherlock gave a snort and purposely kept his response obtuse.  “I promise I won’t get myself shot tonight.”

Mycroft simply waited with raised brow, silently chiding Sherlock in that intimidating way that he had. 

Sherlock sighed impatiently.  “And I promise I won’t be doing _that_ tonight either.”  _Not for you, but because John wouldn't like it,_ he told himself.  But he wanted to, now that it had been brought up.  He craved something.  Just a bit of help to get through this.  He needed just a little.  He really, really did.  But…John.  And he had  just promised Mycroft without thinking about it first.  So he feigned insult.  “There.  Are you satisfied?  Will you finally leave now?”

“Yes, momentarily, Little Brother,” Mycroft answered in that indulgent, big brotherly manner that often drove Sherlock over the edge.  “But it seems I should also apologize.”  He calmly ignored Sherlock’s astonished expression and continued.  “I’ve known for some time that you had grown far too attached to your little…‘goldfish’, but I didn’t realize to what extent your attachment had grown until tonight.  I am sorry.”

What was this?  Mycroft was being…kind?  He seemed like he was being sincere, but sincerity from Mycroft was often only given for a price.  Sherlock eyed him dubiously a moment, but could see no ulterior motive.  After another minute, Sherlock simply sighed and let his shoulders droop.

“As much as it pains me to say it, you were right that I should have made contact with John sooner.”  He couldn’t bear to add anything about the comments from Mary, about how, even so, he might have John beside him now if he’d just come back sooner, or in a different manner.  Instead, he added, “You warned me,” he admitted grudgingly, “not to get involved.  And now…” Sherlock’s throat closed and he couldn’t continue.

“Well,” Mycroft tilted his head thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I could be of some assistance to you regarding that.  A certain USB stick was salvaged, and is now in my possession.  It’s yours if you want it.”

He wanted it.  Wanted it more than any drug.  Not for the advantage or the power it could give him (could it be enough to make John _his_?), but simply for the knowledge—to finally know what he had missed all that time up until Mary had shot him.   To know if John had been wise in disregarding her past.  To know if John were truly safe with her…  Sherlock took a breath, about to accept Mycroft’s offering, but then thought of John again.  John, who had been so angry, so hurt, that Sherlock had not confided in him for two years…  

He grimaced, knowing that if he took it, and John found he was keeping secrets about Mary, that he would leave him forever.  … _Because you chose_ _her_ …He knew he could never make John as happy as Mary could.  And he knew he couldn’t use the information to make John his.  He didn’t want John by default, not that way.  

“No,” Sherlock finally answered.  “Unless John is in imminent danger, I don’t want to know.  John chose not to know what’s on that stick, and I won’t go behind his back.”

“Really,” Mycroft said doubtfully.  “Mary is not the ordinary woman she may have led you to believe.”

Sherlock rolled eyes.  “Don’t be so dull, Big Brother.  I know that, and so does he.  The details aren’t important.”

“She almost killed you,” Mycroft said, the words from his mouth sounding sour.

Sherlock shrugged, gazing at his feet.  He didn’t know how Mycroft knew that, but it didn’t matter.  “She shot me, yes.  But actually I think I almost died only because I thought I was ready to go.  My life is no longer… interwoven… with John’s.  I can no longer lay any claim to him.  I’m merely…his distraction.”

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s sharp gaze settle on him.  “But then you realized that by dying you would leave John unprotected with a murderer for a wife.”

Snorting ruefully, Sherlock was loathe to admit that Mycroft’s deduction was correct.  “Something like that.”

“Aren’t you still worried about her involvement with your ordinary little goldfish?”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock shook his head, recalling Mycroft’s disdain for sentiment, and for ‘ordinary’ people—a disdain that they used to mutually share.  “You _couldn’t_ understand. He loves her.  She makes him happy.  And John is not a goldfish, and he certainly is not ordinary.  He’s… _extraordinary_.” 

Mycroft gave a patient sigh, and moved closer to him, his shoulder gently nudging against Sherlock’s.  “Brother dear, I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand.  I do understand how attached you are to Dr. Watson.”

“Oh, do you now?”  Sherlock made no attempt to hide his skepticism.

In a gentled voice that would have been almost kindly had it come from anyone else, Mycroft answered, “I know because _you_ are _my_ goldfish, Sherlock.” 

Shocked, Sherlock could only stare and blink for a moment.  This was the second time in a week that Mycroft had said something so utterly sentimental that Sherlock was dumbfounded.  _Your loss would break my heart.  You_ _are_ _my_ _goldfish_.  Why was he suddenly so affectionate?  What game was he playing at?  

He couldn’t read anything, no tells, from Mycroft’s expression, although he did look vastly ill-at-ease with the expressed sentiment.  He suddenly was struck that if Mycroft were reduced to voicing such mawkishness, then Sherlock must indeed appear massively pathetic.

And yet… _wasn’t he?_  

Sherlock hung his head, all pride abandoned, resting his forehead on the tops of his knees.  “If that’s the case, then do me a favor?”

“Of course.  What would you like me to do?”

“Take pity on me and flush me down the loo.”

Mycroft chuckled.  “Perhaps we should retire the goldfish metaphor at this point.”

“That would be most welcome.”

Mycroft’s arm reached hesitantly around Sherlock’s back, resting awkwardly across his shoulders.  “Are you all right then?”

Just for a moment, Sherlock gave in and dropped his head to Mycroft’s shoulder with a small sigh.  Apparently he really was in such bad shape that he would take comfort from even Mycroft.  

“I will be,” he sighed in answer.

“Excellent.  Then we shall never speak of this again.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Mycroft’s arm retreated, and Sherlock cleared his throat and lifted his head from the warm comfort of his brother’s shoulder, realizing that they both desperately needed to return to their usual banter.  Sherlock fished about in his mind (reusing the fish metaphor he’d just agreed to give up) to try to change the subject, but his thoughts were still centered on John.

“John paid you a compliment this evening,” he offered.

“Oh?  How ever so nice.  Might I ask what for?”

“Your ability to act convincingly surprised when ‘Moriarty’ supposedly took over the entirety of all the media in London.  Nice job by the way.  I didn’t realize your reach went that far.”

Beside Sherlock, Mycroft went stiff.  Sherlock turned to look at him and could see unmistakeable astonishment in his eyes.  He narrowed his own eyes suspiciously.  “Please tell me you’re doing it again.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft swallowed and looked away, reaching inside his coat for his mobile. 

“Oh God…” Sherlock breathed as they both suddenly realized that neither one of them had anything to do with Moriarty’s media intrusion.

They both stood immediately.  Mycroft barked into his phone for his car to be brought around for the both of them.

“But he’s dead!  I saw him shoot himself,” Sherlock stated.  “That can’t be faked.”

“And I identified his body personally, Sherlock.  Whatever this is, it is not James Moriarty.”

“His network then.”  Sherlock began to stalk back and forth in front of the doorway.  “I’ve missed something.  Who is it?  What did I miss?!”  He scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration.  Then he gasped and looked to Mycroft.  “John!  They’ll use him against me again!”

Nodding to Sherlock, Mycroft immediately made another call and gave orders to put extra security on John and Mary.  Then after a short hesitation, he also added details for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly Hooper.  

“Janine too.  If they believed the stories in the papers, they’ll think they can use her against me too.”   

As Mycroft relayed the order, Sherlock whipped out his own mobile.  He began to dial John, but realized that John would be in no shape to begin work on this case right now.   He dialed Mary instead.

She answered hoarsely but alert.  “Sherlock.  What’s wrong?”  

Sherlock wasted no time.  “Get your gun, make sure it’s loaded, and keep it with you.  And when John wakes, make sure he does likewise.  Mycroft is putting security measures in place as we speak.”

“What is it?  What’s happened?”

“Mycroft didn’t…I didn’t…” Sherlock stuttered, hesitating to admit their foolishness when he and his brother had each assumed the other had been the cause.  “The Moriarty broadcast was _real_.  It can’t be him, but you could both be in real danger.  I won’t let anyone use my friends against me again, so be alert.”  Sherlock’s imagination swept back to John in a semtex vest… Moriarty’s sniper threat on the roof…  He swallowed and added, uncharacteristically, “Please.”

“I will.  Don’t worry about us, Luv.”

“I will anyway,” he answered lowly as he ended the call.

The car was at the curb, and Mycroft was already inside, impatiently gesturing for Sherlock to join him.  “Let’s go, Sherlock. We’ve lost nearly a week already!”

Sherlock climbed into the car and closed his eyes to think as it roared away from Baker Street.  Who could be behind this?  What or who had he missed in the web of Moriarty’s criminal network?  When and how would they make contact again?  What did they want?  But in spite of his mental discipline, in spite of the deadly importance of his mission, Sherlock’s thoughts nevertheless kept skittering over other parts of the evening.  John’s gentle declaration, Sherlock’s kissing blunder, and …

_…we lead a dangerous life, Sherlock, you and me.   We don’t know what the future will bring.  Might be that one of these days could be our last chance to say some of these things to each other…_

With trembling fingers, Sherlock dug his mobile out of his pocket and tapped in a short text to John.

_I love you too.  SH_

After sending the message, he took a deep breath and set his mind to the task at hand.

 

 

 


	2. Tiny Little Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind should be running at full speed, but he finds he can't devote himself fully to the case because of what happened at the party. He's frustrated, and as the saying goes, 'you always hurt the ones you love'. Can John bear the brunt of Sherlock's scorn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I'm not a fast writer! Thanks so much for kudos and encouraging comments! Every single comment is welcome and appreciated! And many thanks also to Cpher for the helpful suggestions and edits!

For weeks, Sherlock toiled long, unfruitful days and nights with Mycroft and his people.  Sometimes he would go to Mycroft’s office, where he would be whisked away to a secret location where he could work with Mycroft’s technicians.  Other days, he would work at home.  Most days, if he wasn’t working at the clinic, John would accompany him.  The days seemed to drone on, one after the other, with no breakthroughs, and no clues.

Other than the single lone, ominous broadcast, there wasn’t anything else to go on.  Mycroft’s group was painstakingly tracing through programming, servers, hubs, routers, etc., searching for any command, virus, trojan, or malware that showed in common amongst all the various media outlets that had been usurped for the Moriarty broadcast.  Sherlock had dissected, frame by frame, the actual broadcast footage that comprised that short “Did you miss me?” message, looking for any clue in the video, audio, or code.  John tried to help, but didn’t have enough technical training to really accomplish anything worthwhile, so he would try to help Sherlock think things through out loud, much the way he’d always done, in much the way he’d suddenly ignite that lightbulb moment for Sherlock in the past.  

But it wasn’t working.  Nothing was working. For the thousandth time, Sherlock sighed and admitted defeat of his current theory.  He scrambled his hands through his hair with a frustrated growl and cleared the desk in front of him, strewing papers and notebooks, pencils, discs, and even the two laptops onto the floor, startling John as he approached with a cup of tea on a saucer with a couple of biscuits on the side.  

“Damn!  Damn it!  I can’t think!  I need to _think_!” he bellowed as he glared at John.  

“Take a break, Sherlock, have some tea and let it go.  We’ll try again later.”

Sherlock grunted.  _As if tea and biscuits were going help!_   He made a grab for the cup and saucer, but John held it back, just out of his reach, and raised an accusing eyebrow.  “Be nice,” he warned, and Sherlock huffed and took the offered china more gently.  

He couldn’t help feeling that somehow John was failing him by not leading him to the right answer the way he always had before.  Sherlock always could think better when John was beside him, even when he just stood there for company’s sake alone, but this time things were different.  Try as he might, Sherlock just couldn’t think, couldn’t make his brain function correctly with John hovering; yet it always grew worse when John would go home to Mary each evening. 

He took a sip and put the cup back down in the saucer with a rough clink, eliciting another raised eyebrow, which only made Sherlock angrier.  “I can’t _think,_ ” he complained again loudly.  “ _Do_ something!”

John sighed and went back to the kitchen.  Sherlock could hear him pouring another cup of tea for himself.  “I said _do_ something!” Sherlock shouted after him.

John came back to the sitting room and settled himself in his chair with his tea.  “What would you like me to do?” he asked, perfectly calm and unruffled.

Sherlock was stuffing a biscuit in his mouth, but John’s relaxed demeanor made his temper flare even more.  “I don’t _know_!  Whatever you usually do that helps me think of the answer!  If you can’t do that, what _good_ are you?!” he roared, ignoring the crumbs that blew from his lips in the process.

John blinked at him a moment, and Sherlock could see he was tamping down on the impulse to yell right back at him.  He almost wished John would yell, maybe that would help things, who knew?  But instead, John merely pulled his mobile from his pocket and glanced at the screen before repocketing it.  

“Just…” John licked his lips and chose his words carefully.  “Just drink your tea and enjoy your biscuits for a few minutes, all right?”

With a dramatic huff, Sherlock did as he asked, but still stewed.  When he was done, he shoved his china in John’s direction, even though John hadn’t finished his own yet.  But John merely blinked, and with a long-suffering sigh, set his own aside and took Sherlock’s back to the kitchen.

Returning, John seated himself again in his chair and ignored Sherlock’s scowl.  “All right, Sherlock.  Should we think this through out loud again?”

“No,” Sherlock pouted, staring at the scratched tabletop.  Then an idea occurred.  He turned in his seat.  “John.”

“What?  Did you think of something?  A clue?”

“What?”  Sherlock made a face and shook his head.  “No.  Not like that.  But I did have an idea.”

John waited for a moment, his lips pursed patiently, but when Sherlock wasn’t forthcoming, he prodded, “Which is…?”

“I need something.”

“What?” John asked, then realized.  “What…No.  Sherlock.  No.  We are not going to have that argument again.”

“What argument?” Sherlock hissed.  “I ask, you tell me ‘no’, and there’s no discussion at all!  That’s not an argument!”

“Doesn’t matter.  It’s just not going to happen!” John retorted, but at least now a spark of anger lit his eyes.

“But I can’t _think_!”

“Yes, you can,” John sighed, as if he were so tired of everything _Sherlock_.  “If you can control your needs for sleep, food, and sex, and if you can control your mind to create a whole mind palace, you can control this!”

Sherlock turned away and faced the empty desk again, crossing his arms tight against his chest.  “You are intolerable,” he complained, somewhere in his mind knowing he was acting childish, but unable to restrain himself.

John just chuckled as he munched on his last biscuit.  “ _Me_?  I’m the one who’s intolerable?”

“Yes.  You refuse to see the logic in at least _trying_ it to see if it helps!”

“No.  Sherlock, absolutely not.  That’s not the way this is going to work.  _Ever_.”

“If you’re going to be useless to me, you might as well go home.”

John stared at him a moment, his head tilted in that way that said he was getting really annoyed.  “Gee, okay, Sherlock, I’ll go home right now,” he offered in a patronizing tone, then grew deadly serious.  “But not until I call Mycroft to come and stay with you after I leave.”

Sherlock stood, and in two long strides hurled himself onto the couch, his dressing gown swirling dramatically, deciding it was time to go for the jugular.  “I _need_ something, John.  I need something that will _work_ for me, not a tiny little man who insinuates himself into my work because he wants to escape the complete and utter _boringness_ of his own little life!”

And then the room went deathly still.  Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and was tempted to look over at John to see how effective his insult had been, but realized that the prolonged silence spoke to that.  

He heard rustling as John stood up and took a couple steps toward him, then saw out of the corner of his eye that John was checking his phone messages again.

What was he doing?  Oh.  He’d almost forgotten the date.  

“Baby?” he asked, wondering if Mary needed John to come home.  Baby Not-Sherlock Watson wasn’t due for another week, yet Sherlock knew that due dates were merely estimates.  But if Mary had started labor and John had to leave quickly, that would give him ample opportunity to procure something before Mycroft could arrive…

“No,” John sighed quietly as he put his phone away again.  “Just taking a moment to absorb the salient points of your rant.”

Sherlock knew he should apologize, hated himself for not doing so immediately, but couldn’t, not while he was still trembling in anger and shaking with need for the cool clarity of a high.

“If I can’t think, if I can’t come up with any answers, who knows how many lives could be lost because of this?”

John took a deep breath and let it out, and came to stand directly over him so that Sherlock had nowhere else to look but right up at him.  “No, Sherlock.  You think you can wear me down with insults and intimidation?  Not gonna happen, Sherlock.  No drugs.”

Sherlock again felt the anger ignite like a rocket within him.  John’s continued implacability was almost as infuriating as his steadfast commitment to a drug-free environment.  Sherlock bolted up off of the couch, nearly causing John to tumble over the coffee table as he lurched to get out of Sherlock’s way, and strode imperiously through the kitchen and hall to his bedroom, slamming the door with resounding force.

He waited until he heard John’s tentative footsteps in the hall before he spat out “I _hate_ you!” through the closed door.  Then he flung himself onto his bed to sulk.

A minute or so passed, and Sherlock thought perhaps John had finally left, until he heard John’s quiet, controlled voice through the door.

“Sherlock.  I know you don’t think so, but by doing this, I _am_ helping you.”

Sherlock lifted his head from his face-down position on his pillow so he could shout unmuffled.  “No, you’re not.  You’re torturing me!”

At this angle, looking through the glazed glass panels into the bathroom, he could see straight on through the open bathroom door to John’s blurred figure standing in the hall a couple feet back from the door.  John was again checking his phone, but Sherlock wouldn’t give him the satisfaction by asking about Mary again.  He knew his behavior would be seen as childish, but didn’t care.

“Go away,” he demanded, returning his face to his pillow.

This was his life now, it seemed:  childish outbursts amidst frantic attempts to solve a crime that couldn’t be solved, alternating with moody depressions as he tried to get a handle on the sentiment that had assumed insidious control in his gut.  He spent half his time trying to tamp down on his horrendous feelings of affection for John and return to cold objectivity, trying to take all that awful paralyzing sentiment and imprison it in that lonely attic room in his mind palace, brick it in with solid stone and mortar; and then he spent the rest of his time obsessing over when and whether it might ever be appropriate to kiss John again.  Because he wanted that, badly, almost more than he wanted to solve this case.  Almost more than he wanted a high.  No.  That wasn’t correct.  He definitely wanted that more than both the case and the high. 

He knew that John was only trying to help, but was clearly distracted because the baby would be coming soon.  That was his place now, as husband and father, to put his family first.  And yet, in spite of all the abuse Sherlock heaped upon him, John always remained, steadfastly returning to help Sherlock every day that he didn’t have to see patients.

Why did he do it?  Why did he stay?  Surely at least some of Sherlock’s more barbed insults had drawn blood, hadn’t they?

He’d called him useless today.  He’d said he’d hated him.  He’d called him a tiny little man who only came to Sherlock for the adrenaline rush.  

Tiny little man?  

Sherlock snorted in spite of himself.  It was preposterous.  John may be short in height, but he had never been a tiny little man.  Not in Sherlock’s eyes.  

Mike Stamford was the only man Sherlock knew who was shorter than John.  But whereas Mike compensated for the insufficiency of his height with the greatness of his girth, John made himself larger than the sum of his parts by simply affecting real greatness.  Oh, it wasn’t the type of greatness that royalty and innovators and philanthropists garnered.  It was the kind of greatness that made him loom large in importance to all who loved him—his compassion, his patience, his perseverance, honesty, and loyalty.  Mary saw this.  And so did Sherlock.

John was touchy about his size, though.  He never said so in words, but Sherlock had logged many observations that pointed towards John’s sensitivity about his shorter height.  He always stood back from taller men, especially Mycroft (although Sherlock granted that may have been due to dislike and distrust as much as anything else), not so much as to discourage any onlooker’s comparison of obvious height differences, but to enable himself to meet their eyes without having to tilt his neck back so far.  And he always walked soldier-straight, head held high, with his chin up and shoulders squared, and Sherlock was sure it wasn’t just a remnant of military training.  It was for that extra two centimeters it would give him.  Not only did he walk so erect, he also took large steps when he walked—steps that were the length of a tall man’s stride (was that why John’s calves were so well-muscled?)  If Sherlock were ever to try to deduce footprints at a crime scene wherein John had been the criminal, he would have deduced from the long stride that John was several inches taller.

Of course, John didn’t just compensate for this height by the way he carried himself.  It was also how he presented himself.  Sherlock had long ago deduced that John’s clothing style and ill-fit was more due to the desire to appear larger than to a lack of taste.  His jumpers and loosely-fitted denim trousers gave the illusion of more bulk, and his jackets and coats enhanced the perception of broader shoulders.  Only when John appeared in the mornings or after showers wearing his thin dressing gown would one be able to appreciate how slender John really was.

But perhaps John’s height sensitivity was most apparent when people insinuated things about his relationship with Sherlock.  Were his knee-jerk denials and obvious irritation based on the ridiculous perception that because he was short others might regard him as Sherlock’s “woman”?  Sherlock thought the idea ridiculous, especially if anyone knew John at all, but he did wonder if there might be some validity in the idea that John’s vehement disclaimers might be rooted in defensiveness about his height.  Wouldn’t that just be the kind of thing that schoolboys would heckle him about?

Maybe that had something to do with why John needlessly compensated for his lack of height by simply _acting_ tall.  By acting solid, and tough.  Brave.  Quick-tempered.  His military training, or perhaps the bullies of his youth, had rendered him a formidable fighter.  But his good qualities, and not his appearance or bravura, were what made him bigger in Sherlock’s mind.  

In fact, John was _gigantic_ in Sherlock’s mind, if one accounted for the proportion of thought and sentiment centered on him.  And this, this sentiment and fondness for John, was the reason behind his inability to think of anything else for more than a few minutes at a time.

Therefore, Sherlock needed to subdue those thoughts and get them under control.  He had to stop thinking about John, about what John had said, about what Mary had said, and about his own feelings for him.  Because there was a case to work. Because John was married.  Because Sherlock had returned to London too late, and had joked when he should have begged forgiveness.  It was done.  Over.  And there was nothing to do for it now, so he should be sensible and just let it all go.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?  He just couldn’t let it go and clear his mind of it the way he used to.  So he ended up flinging barbs at the person he loved most.

And once again, Sherlock realized he had proof regarding the danger and folly of love.

There was a quiet knock at his bedroom door.  “Sherlock?” John’s voice called out quietly, half in a whisper.  

Sherlock didn’t want to answer, didn’t trust his voice or what he might say, so he sandwiched his head between his pillows.

The door opened with a small creak.  “Sherlock?  Mycroft is here now.  I’m going to head home.”

Sherlock hated that the day had to end this way, with John tiptoeing around Sherlock’s moods and Mycroft waiting like a vulture to scold and dispense callous advice.  He shouldn’t have said what he’d said.  John wasn’t tiny, not in any way that counted.  And Sherlock knew damn well that John remained beside him for more than just the adrenaline of working cases.  

_Might be that one of these days could be our last chance…_   He didn’t want John to leave thinking that Sherlock was still angry with him.  He should really apologize to John.  Tell him it was just the addict inside him that made him say those things…

Sherlock lifted his head, but there was no one there, and the door was shut.  He pushed himself up to sit on the side of his bed and listened.  He could hear John and Mycroft speaking in low voices in the sitting room.  He sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his hair.  He didn’t want to have to apologize to John in front of Mycroft’s judgmental gaze.  He really wasn’t sure if he could make the words come at all, but with Mycroft there, it would be next to impossible.  

But then he heard John’s light tread on the stair and he bolted from his room in a panic.  He raced down the hall to the kitchen, then tore open the door to the staircase.  “John!  John, wait!”

John was only as far as the next landing, and he stopped in mid-turn as he rounded the corner to the next staircase that led to the front door.  He looked up at Sherlock warily, and Sherlock could see that he wasn’t sure if he was about to receive an apology or another insult.

He merely waited for Sherlock to descend toward him, his head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed.

“John.  Wait.  I’m…”, his voice failed him, paralyzed at the word “sorry”.  He could feel Mycroft hovering warily behind him, probably prepared to hook him with his umbrella if Sherlock decided to bolt for the outdoors.

“John,” Sherlock swallowed and tried again.  “I… I don’t hate you.”

The lines around John’s eyes and mouth softened, and Sherlock saw a momentary upward quirk of his lips.

“I know,” John answered gently.  

Sherlock’s cheeks heated in shame.  “How could you?  I’ve done nothing but insult you for days.”

John’s eyes sparkled and he grinned.  He took his mobile from his jacket pocket, and showed him the screen, angling it for his eyes only.  “Because I still have _this_ , you idiot.”

Sherlock tore his gaze from John’s amused expression and gaped at the screen.  

_I love you too.  SH_

He’d saved the message that Sherlock had sent after the New Year’s Eve party.  He’d saved it for weeks.  And every time Sherlock had insulted him, he’d been pulling out his phone and reminding himself of what was real, what was important.  

Sherlock had to struggle to stay upright and not melt into John in shame and adoration.  He wanted to reach out, to hug, to kiss, to at least press his forehead into John’s shoulder and dissolve right into him.  But Mycroft was there, watching, judging, and Sherlock knew that John would be embarrassed if he did any of those things in front of Mycroft.

So he merely sighed in relief, and blinked tears from his eyes, then whispered, “I do, you know.”

“I know,” John whispered in return.  “It reminds me that in spite of being an insufferable sodding genius, you’re human too.”  

They stood there, gazing wistfully at each other, Sherlock suddenly realizing that John wanted to reach out as much as he did.  John’s eyes flicked to Mycroft for a second.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!  Hug each other and get on with it!” Mycroft grumbled, turning abruptly and heading back into the flat.

John actually giggled a bit and lifted his arms out, and that was all the invitation Sherlock needed to step forward and wrap himself around him, pressing his face into the warm, soft skin of John’s neck.  John closed his arms around Sherlock and squeezed tightly, still chuckling.  Sherlock dared to press his lips against John’s neck.   It was so subtle, he was sure that John wouldn’t even recognize it as a kiss, but it didn’t matter, really, because Sherlock knew, and that was all he needed.

John squeezed tightly again (maybe he did feel the kiss? Sherlock wondered) and then clapped Sherlock once on the shoulder.  Sherlock knew from previous observations that it was one of the unwritten rules of a man-hug to let go after that, so he did so, reluctantly.

When he looked shyly to meet John’s eyes again, John was still smiling.  “Hey, Sherlock.  Do me a favor?”

“Of course.  Anything,” Sherlock answered, knowing that he literally would do anything for John.

“I have to work the next couple days, and Mary is going stir crazy at home waiting for the baby,” John said.  Sherlock tried to keep his disappointment at the mention of Mary’s name off his face.  Even while they were acting upon their sentiment for one another, obviously Mary was still in John’s thoughts.  “She had to stop working because of the swelling in her ankles, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could drop by and keep her company a while, maybe bring in some lunch or something?”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed.  It sounded like the perfect opportunity to speak with Mary about what she’d said at the party.  He still needed to understand what she’d said, and why.  Perhaps getting some answers would help him think more clearly on the case then.  “I’d be happy to.  Tell her I’ll see her for lunch tomorrow, and I’ll bring something from that Thai place she likes.”

“She can’t.  Too spicy right now, gives her heartburn.”

Sherlock fought the impulse to roll his eyes.  “Angelo’s then?”

John grinned sheepishly.  “If you don’t mind.  She’s been craving Italian food lately.”

“Then Angelo’s it is,” Sherlock said, smiling back.  If John had asked him to carry his wife barefoot across hot coals he would have done it if it meant that John would smile at him like that.

Then John zipped his jacket, preparing to leave.  They stared at each other awkwardly another moment.

“All right, then,” John offered with a nod.  “Let me know if anything breaks on the case.”

“I will,” Sherlock answered, wishing he could think of something more interesting to say, something that might make John stay a few more minutes.

“All right,” John backed away and turned toward the staircase.  “Good night, Sherlock.  Don’t be too hard on your brother, yeah?”

“What?  And disappoint all his expectations?”  

John just threw him a grin that Sherlock wanted to capture and hold in his memory forever.  Had John always looked so sweet when he grinned like that, or was this something new he was doing?  Or had only Sherlock’s perception changed?

He waited until he heard John close the front door behind him, then he walked up the stairs and back into the flat.  He stepped over to the window between his chair and the table and pulled the curtain aside, just in time to see John fold himself into the back seat of a taxi.

Mycroft’s voice came to him from near the fireplace.  “Pushing him away won’t make it stop.  You’ll only succeed in hurting him.”

Sherlock took in a sharp breath and opened his mouth to argue, but instead realized the truth of his brother’s words.  Had John told him how childish Sherlock had been today, or did Mycroft merely deduce it?  It didn’t matter though, did it?

“I know,” he answered quietly, still watching out the window as the cab pulled away.  

“You must try to control it, Brother Mine.  Channel your energies into the case instead.”

Sherlock spun around angrily to face him.  “Don’t you think that’s what I’ve been trying to do?!”

Mycroft shrugged with that pained innocent expression of his, and settled himself into Sherlock’s chair, adjusting the creases in his trousers carefully.  “Yes.  But bad behaviour… or drugs…won’t help, will it?”

Feeling defensive at the mention of the reason for Mycroft’s presence—he could easily deduce that John had texted two simple words— _danger night_ —to his brother earlier—Sherlock sat himself in John’s chair and pulled his feet up, hugging his knees.   He sighed and tried to direct his thoughts away from John.  “There’s a madman out there.”

“And we know it’s not James Moriarty.”

Sherlock had been over this ground so many times.  Was there any other way to come at this that he hadn’t tried yet?  Who had he missed?  What link in Moriarty’s network had he failed to find?  If Moriarty was dead, who would…?

Sherlock looked up sharply.  “Is it possible he fooled us somehow?  If I faked my death, is it possible he faked his?”

“No, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” Mycroft sighed.  “The first thing we did was check the body we recovered.  It’s definitely him, and he’s definitely dead.”

“Or perhaps this is a postmortem scenario he had planned in the case of his death.  Is it possible this was just set up to occur automatically at a certain point after his death, with the sole purpose of hounding me into insanity?”  

Mycroft merely pursed his thin mouth into a disbelieving line.  Sherlock huffed and continued, “So it has to be someone new.  Someone who managed to stay undetected from my investigation and work in dismantling Moriarty’s network. ”

Mycroft merely shrugged and stared at the cold fireplace.  If John were here, there would be a warm fire glowing, Sherlock thought irritably.  Mycroft wasn’t helping, he was just being useless, and keeping Sherlock from achieving the means to pursue the answers.  Even just a tiny dose of cocaine would be so much more helpful, might help direct him on the right path.

Sherlock scowled and rested his chin on his knees.  “Or perhaps it’s you, Mycroft.  Perhaps he isn’t as dead as you say, and you captured him to use him when you felt it was necessary!  Is he _useful_ to you, like Magnussen?  Did my pending exile make you feel it was necessary to break him out and be _useful_?”

Mycroft’s expression was unexpected.  He looked…not insulted, as Sherlock had anticipated and hoped, but hurt.  Was that even possible?  “Of course not!   You know that’s not true!” Mycroft protested, much more softly than Sherlock expected.  

Regretting his accusation, Sherlock sighed and rose to the window, absently gazing out at the street again.  “I know, Mycroft.  I…I just don’t know why I can’t get anywhere with this.”

He saw Mycroft’s reflection in the glass as his brother came to stand beside him.  “You know why.”  

“Sentiment,” he admitted lowly.  

“Yes,” Mycroft answered softly.  It wasn’t an accusation; it was merely agreement.

“You were right,” Sherlock sighed.  “Caring is not an advantage.”

“It won’t go away, Sherlock, even if you want it to.  You just have to figure out how to shut it down.”

Sherlock fidgeted with the edge of the curtain.  “What if I don’t want to shut it down?” he asked, almost plaintively.

He felt Mycroft’s hand settle tentatively on his shoulder.  “He’s married, Sherlock.”

Sherlock found he had no answer for that.  He merely let himself shift sideways until the full length of him was pressed against his brother’s side.  Mycroft’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently as Sherlock stared unseeing out the window, hoping that Mycroft either couldn’t see his tears, or would ignore them.


End file.
